It is rather odd how disorganized/eccentric/absent-minded people who do not make checklists spend a large part of their lives searching for mundane things like glasses.
But I left my glasses there, right there on the table
The little one by the stair, silly me to keep it by the table
Near the stair, but that is where I left it and now it isn’t there?
My wife had told me to get a spare, but I couldn’t bear the thought
Of separating from my sturdy set,
And here I am again fumbling, bumbling, stumbling,
I thought death undid!
I thought my pretty wife would clean up my things
Before they sprouted wings, and arrange them safe
Just to get a smell of me, a lingering waft of face,
A touch of my jacket, a feel of the rim,
A pasted photograph of her glorious him,
No, she packed me away.
I want to forget, she said
Throw all the books that he read
Unwalk those roads he did tread
Maybe a new massage in his bed?